I stared at the crushed corpse on the blanket, horror and loathing sweeping over my very being. Just contemplating the sight made my skin break out in gooseflesh – a ridiculous reaction for a man of worldly experience but I couldn't shake it.
I glanced at my companion, willing him to deny what was in front of us. "Holmes, is . . . is that really . . . ?"
"Yes, Watson, I fear so," he replied darkly. He rubbed his fingers – the ones that had come into contact with it -- absently yet vehemently on his pocket handkerchief.
"Should we alert the innkeeper?"
"To what purpose? The man is probably quite aware of the situation already."
"And he has done nothing about it?" I exclaimed in outrage.
Holmes shrugged. "It would not surprise me in the slightest. The innkeeper is not the most scrupulous of proprietors."
I sighed. "Nevertheless, I feel he should be told."
"You're only wasting your time, I assure you. No," Holmes concluded, sitting on a hard chair and lighting his pipe, "we shall have to deal with it ourselves."
"And by deal with it, you mean we should ignore the thing."
"Well, yes. That, and avoid any and all cushioning in the room." At my incredulous look, he added, "unless you want to spend the night hunting bedbugs."
Based on a horrible scare I had two nights ago. Fortunately they were NOT bedbugs, only tiny beetle-things that came through the vent, but my reaction was similar to Watson's -- with a lot more girly hysteria thrown in.